Most likely to Break hearts:
She lives in a world of ***
Hands around her neck, hickies on her hips, and blood on her boyfriends tattooed fists
Dating boys who are twice her age
She got straight A's but never will live up to her potential
because her *** is shaped like a heart, and her heart is shaped like a dollar sign

Most likely to Live in her dreams:
She wears twigs in her hair and presses flowers in notebooks
Scattered around her eclectic cottage
Living off  her woodland knowledge
Literally a ghost, no job, no life, no love
no ******* reality

EDITED:  MARK AS VOID (she dumped him and he fell apart)
Most likely to Elope after high school:
I can picture her running away with him
Living in ***** motels on concrete streets
Surviving on paper plates of buttered toast and styrofoam cups filled with bitter black coffee
kissing under stars in empty parking lots
She loves him so much not even I can see them falling apart

Most likely to Fry his brain on drugs:
Alone in his room
Bowl packed, lungs filled with skunked up smoke
Laughing at nothing listening to loud *** rap music
I can see his future its as empty as his head
Tripping up the stairs to his heavenly room to **** down more stale air
and taste clouds

Most Likely to Become a Stripper:
He looks like a stud with hair of gold
Picturing him with dollar bills being stuffed in his G string is an easy image.
His solid heart makes him strong
but his craving for a boy to love him makes him weak
I love him

EDITED:I AM NO LONGER A ****** BUT IM STILL UNLOVED
I am just most likely to die a young ******, drunk on *****, high on illegal drugs, melancholy about nothing, and empty inside.

walking along the trash and ice filled streets of the upper west side every head is turning to look at him with his hand in my pocket like it's a crime for a portrait to be framed with driftwood like fat thighs and wobbling jaws.

sometimes i convince myself that i am projecting my attraction to his spider legs in skinny jeans and lilting accent whispering rainforests and crocodile beaches onto every girl we encounter but then--

we're in the bronx strolling through the frozen zoo a girl chattering on her phone goes dumb momentarily in the middle of a story as her eyes rake his Tam-Lin nose and James Potter hair and i can tell he's trying not to laugh when he glances sideways at me smirking and squeezed a love handle.

it's fashion week and models are strolling through central park with mannequin joints rattling in the cold and painted lips smiling and lashes batting and some boys with frosted tips watch his back jeans pockets with canary-caught satisfaction.

in east harlem at a dive with pitchers of **** as centerpieces, a swedish barmaid asks him for his number and serves me a skunked shandy.

the lady cop forgot to write my ticket after she checked his ID "so australia, huh?" as she sidles up to the dangling license plate and shattered headlights

in line for a coffee in my hometown two giggling teenagers have a carrying conversation "they fit together though, in a weird way like bert and ernie"

i love you, but walking with you is like wearing a sign reading "great personality, i guess" though you couldn't read it because the message is distended, stretched over x-acto scarred rolls and flopping flesh, gibbous ******* and bulging armpits

every eyebrow quirk and coy smile reminds me how absurd it is that you draw me close and tell me i smell like fire and my face is like a doll's and my hips serve practical purposes and my eyes are big as a sailor soldier and you lift me when we dance to tv themes and whine like a puppy when i forget to kiss you on my way out the door resonating inexplicable affection

walking alone through airport terminals not a single glance is wasted on me as i kiss you through baggage check so i take the final opportunity for invisibility with makeup smearing gusto and mourn how much braver i am when i am with you.

yea i got young honeys
that sell me drug money
aint nothin funny
******* like Gunny
boys intervene leave they necks runny
it dont matter the time crime
down for mine everytime
i pull the nine flat line
or machete
chop ya up like spaghetti
thwy wasnt ready
for yosef coming most of
rhe lyric so funky foggy
ya clear it periods
they cab see me drug slangin
mute those who lippin
tippin on my qs in case of set trippin
load them clips in
call a few of my partners
or disciples in
after couple shots of hen and gin
we put an end to sin and then
theyll remeber
the yosef cold as the december
month pull stunts
stay skunked and drunked
almost dunk
my mind into a pit of hell
my story neva fails
if ya crosss ill still prevail
living well
lookin for ghost to
come out they shell
ya cant bail im on ya trail
sell yeyo
cuz be fienin for yummy
crummy
for the love of that moneyyy!!!!


Foe the luv of them greens
**** and money
Got me chasin fantasies
I'm stuck in a daisy never me lazy crazy
As can be put yo chips my chips in
An nd together we could be rippin
Up mics smokin em like pipes
My yearn for these dead presidents
Might cost ya life and you'll be
Living with dead resident never hesitant
To make moves to show and prove
And you know who?
Be coming with 64s top low
Haters stay low or embrace the halo
Luv the smell of yeyo
To my nose takin major blows
Quick dose of reality my locality
Be in the pits of hell o well
Take a trip wirh me as I sail
Through ocean of money
So fools don't think it's funny
I'm coming up quick with them knots
Sells from fat rocks
Cuz I Be itching for the luv of the moneyyyyyyy

The AAA guide says Jesse and Frank James
jumped Devil's Gulch on horseback to outrun
the Northfield posse. A must see locale.

Though that story has largely been debunked,
Splitrock done built an small tourist industry
around the myth.

Gordy sits all summer long in a cabin
with no A/C, black flies on the screens
like dog hair on a furnace filter.

Gordy sits all summer long in a cabin
with a couple Coleman coolers filled
with all the best brands of soda,

Hawkin' the t-shirts and postcards
he didn't sell last year or the year before,
but that's ole' fly-swattin' Gordy.

He keeps a list of the origins of tourists,
that's all his talk down at the Sports Cabin,
where he sits all winter long.

Between sips and drips of foam above his lip,
he'll say "Norway, Pennsylvania, Mississippi,
Japan, Iceland, Kansas..."

He might ask you if you're gonna eat that.
The pizza got cold anyway - so why not.
Plus he knows what Gloria did yesterday.

He gave a '57 Chrysler to his 10 year old granddaughter,
but she lost it after the divorce.
Her dad signed the title and left the state.

I guess that's about the state of things around here,
disappointed tourists, skunked out beer,
cold pizza, the little girl who lost her
dad and her car on the very same day.

After you spilled hot cider
on the opal-purple plastic

sequins of the dress our great-
grandma bought you, we ran

down a cigarette-smoke
saturated neon alley

that dripped red blues and greens
between ivy-wrapped cracks

in the antique-brick buildings
across the lopsided street.

Carnies barked over plywood
counters draped in tablecloths,

shouting, “Prize every time!”
at kids grabbing pink ducks

from a foodcolor-blue model
of the White River, while other kids

popped balloons with darts like
the syringes our town is famous for

stabbing like stakes into undead
methed-out arms, and we hid

behind a coffin-shaped green porta-
***** near the chain-linked swings.

You held your nose in a gloved hand
and tried to dry the steaming cider

with a napkin I found hanging
half-out a yellow trashbag

full of skunked beer and flies,
and you said, through mascara-

poisoned bubbling black streams
and sour-pink lips, “Mamaw’s probably

mad enough I only won
Miss Congeniality — just imagine

how mad she’s going to be when mom
goes to the hospital tomorrow

and tells her that the cocktail-
dress she worked to death to put

her spoiled great-granddaughter in
smells like rotten apple pie!”

Sing a song of sixpence,
Drunk off the rye,
Tricked blackbird sentenced,
Skunked, yet overwhelmed with pride.
A drunken fool don’t know better.
A man used to taken licks,
By his own half-cut father.
And was abandoned by his mother,
At the age of six.
Growing up to believe that his value,
Was only worth six cents.
Piling more weight onto the ice,
Wondering when he’ll breakthrough?
Trapped in the ducts,
Because that’s the only time he can vent.
Tried health services once,
But they tried to crucify him like Christ.
Wrong skin tone, so he outta luck!
Left to the vices, let the demons pounce!
Lashing out because the only time people listen,
Is when you’re a risk.

Some folks choose to see the actions,
But ignore the cries.
Need some glasses,
To see how some people are vandalized.
Yet some still stay desensitized.
Death on every block,
Don’t mean ****, till it reaches our lives.

Play the game ***.
I give thanks up
To god. He built me filthy
With some rank blood.
Stay skunked with kush
Like peppy lepiux was.
Giving thanks up.
Blood bank type of donation
Thats life drained ***
now ******* bank up...

Shiver with the little artwork
Smart words.
That light up little black light
Parchment turned
Into currency. So don't let the art burn.
Hard words.
In texture with better business
You can feel decisions
Reflect the image.
Like mirror clear invisionment.
Of fixture in religion
Christ deliverance
Nice intelligence.
And price equivalents.
To euro status.
With smiles and giddiness
Rising to highs
Like roller coaster children does.

I know theres been talks I've been saving stuff up. Either way I'm old news. So here's a lil something written tonight. Canada day
High on illecite drugs that should be legal for a myriad of reasons that make so much cents. But it be sweeter if they made dollars

Living in Canada day.

With a hand of the yay.

Like little candles

Make a man.

After he
Flashes in the ashtray.


It's the last hey.

Before I fade into the fast lane.

I'm so subtle I make


Jared from subway

Look like a great dad

While I'm skunked

And bunked in the ******* drunk tank


Calling me sinister.

Is a tale reminiscent 

Of that punk Dave.


I may recall.



You misbehaving Dave

I'm a ghetto child....


I **** the same *****

And still call you a *******....

It’s both a feeling and a lack of feeling
That’s why it’s black, not grey;
Both a color and a lack of color.

I can’t be conscious.
I can’t keep going.

I wake up in a daze
Still a little drunk,
Skunked, take a walk to take a ****,
Feeling like I’ve missed something,
The agony of the day begins.

Kicking myself over fictional sins
The sickly stench of solitude
Sweeps me into silence.
Too much caffeine to jog my mind
My body is nauseated already.
Steady hands left me long ago
Sorrow and saltwater is within my eyes.

I can’t be conscious.
I can’t keep going.

Black thoughts are my wife
Prolonged by life, the ultimate depressant.
Wasted days are ever present;
Not the exception, but the rule.

After nap time, slurp up the drool and
Go to kingdom Cruel where
No self-aware being escapes its own glare.
Thoughts are frantic and fragmented
A stagnant mind, fragile it finds
Relief in not thinking, to be found
In drinking Aristocrat. But it wears off too soon;
It’s a depressant they say
Have they forgotten about life?